There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

One moment of silence.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

One moment of silence.

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

One moment of silence.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

One moment of silence.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

One moment of silence.

Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

One moment of silence.

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

an underground city
a walled-in heart
a bronze-domed stage

Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Sara Camhaji

visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.

This site is part of the project "DON´T TAKE PHOTOS OF THE LANDSCAPE; TAKE PORTRAITS WITH THE VIEW OF THE BACKGROUND IF YOU LIKE", whose creative object revolves around the phenomenon of memory and its conceptual visualization. Thus, Sara explores the different languages on which the mind reloads its truth and the way it constructs our inner world.
About
SARA CAMHAJI (Mexico City, 1986) is a writer, teacher, and mother. Her work is a natural response to her lived experience and the emotional dimensions she has inhabited. She has told and written stories for her entire life. Poetry—the axis of her exploration—has prompted her to develop new discursive forms in close contact with inner human reality; wrenching, they open themselves to embodiment and appropriation. She has a master’s in creative writing, two children, and two published works: Maleza (Alboroto Ediciones, 2022) and this one. A selection of her poems appeared in the UNAM’s Periódico de Poesía. She received a grant from Asylum Arts in 2017 and was awarded the Peleh Fund arts residency in Berkeley, California, for 2023. Narrated poetry or poetic narrative? Sara writes in the voice of an archive with a voice of its own, like a thinking time machine, or from the dark sincerity of she-who-didn’t-know-she-had-to-live.
© W// - Do Everything online™